“The neighbors have been trying to turn this into a landfill,” he said.
“He could not have gotten down here with his bad knee,” I said. “What’s the best way to approach this?”
“On my arm.”
“No. I need to look at this alone.”
“Well, you’re not going down there alone. We don’t know if someone else might still be down there somewhere.”
“There’s blood there.” I pointed the flashlight, and several large drops glistened on dead leaves about six feet down from where I was.
“There’s a lot of it up here.”
“Any up by the street?”
‘ ”No. It looks like it pretty much starts right here, But we’ve found some on the path going all the way down to where he is,”
“All right. Let’s do it.” I looked around and began careful steps, Marino’s heavier ones behind me.
Police had run bright yellow tape from tree to tree, seCuring as much of the area as possible, for right now we did not know how big this scene might be. I could not see the body until I emerged from the woods into a clearing where the old railroad bed led to the river south of me and disappeared into the tunnel’s yawning mouth to the west.
Danny Webster lay half on his back, half on his side in an awkward tangle of arms and legs. A large puddle of blood was beneath his head. I slowly explored him with the flashlight and saw an abundance of dirt and grass on his sweater and jeans, and bits of leaves and other debris clung to his blood-matted hair.
“He rolled down the hill,” I said as I noted that several straps had come loose in his bright red brace, and debris was caught in Velcro. “He was already dead or almost dead when he came to rest in this position.”
“Yeah, I think it’s pretty clear he was shot up there,” Marino said. “My first question was whether he bled while he maybe tried to get away. And he makes it about this far, then collapses and rolls the rest of the way.”
“Or maybe he was made to think he was being given a chance to get away.” Emotion crept into my voice. “You see this knee brace he has on? Do you have any idea how slowly he would have moved were he trying to get down this path? Do you know what it’s like to inch your way along on a bad leg?”
“So some asshole was shooting fish in a barrel,” Marino said.
I did not answer him as I directed the light at grass and trash leading up to the street. Drops of blood glistened dark red on a flattened milk carton whitened by weather and time.
“What about his wallet?” I asked.
“It was in his back pocket. Eleven bucks and charge cards still in it,” Marino said, his eyes constantly moving.
I took photographs, then knelt by the body and turned it so I could get a better look at the back of Danny’s ruined head. I felt his neck, and he was still warm, the blood beneath him coagulating. I opened my medical bag.
“Here.” I unfolded a plastic sheet and gave it to Marino.
“Hold this up while I take his temperature.”
He shielded the body from any eyes but ours as I pulled down jeans and undershorts, finding that both were soiled.
Although it was not uncommon for people to urinate and defecate at the instant of death, sometimes this was the body’s response to terror. “You got any idea if he fooled around with drugs?” Marino asked.
“I have no reason to think so,” I said. “But I have no idea.”
“For example, he ever look like he lived beyond his means’? I mean, how much did he earn?”
“He earned about twenty-one thousand dollars a year. I don’t know if he lived beyond his means. He still lived at home.
The body temperature was 94.5, and I set the thermometer on top of my bag to get a reading of the ambient air. I moved arms and legs, and rigor mortis had started only in small muscles like his fingers and eyes. For the most part, Danny was still warm and limber as in life, and as I bent close to him I could smell his cologne and knew I would recognize it forever. Making sure the sheet was completely under him, I turned him on his back, and more blood spilled as I began looking for other wounds.